


Raise The Bar And Our Cups To The Stars

by Camelittle



Series: Sochi Winter Olympics 2014 [2]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Hot speed skaters are hot, M/M, Sochi Winter Olympics 2014
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-09
Updated: 2014-02-09
Packaged: 2018-01-11 18:02:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1176172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Camelittle/pseuds/Camelittle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gwaine’s single, he’s in Sochi, and he’s doing his bit for Anglo-Irish-Chilean relations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Raise The Bar And Our Cups To The Stars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Waanderlust](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Waanderlust/gifts).



> Wan: thanks for joining in with the flailing. THIGHS OF STEEEEEL! 
> 
> Set in the same 'verse as "Zero Feet Away". This is an alternative universe in which Team GB's ice-hockey players qualified for Sochi, and so, conveniently for Gwaine, did a large number of very buff and handsome Chilean speed-skaters.

There’s a tangible smell of excitement in the air.

The chilly, metallic taste of snow, the thrill of anticipation, and an Olympic village full of athletes at the peak of their game, conspire to make the atmosphere glitter with expectation.

Gwaine’s on top form. “I’m off to watch the speed skating,” he says, before he’s even unpacked his bag. “Have you seen the Chilean speed-skating team? They are as buff as fuck. They have thighs of steel, Arthur. Thighs of steel! Imagine those clamped around your waist, mate!”

“Honestly Gwaine, you’re slobbering,” says Arthur, who can't help smiling at his friend’s enthusiasm. “Put your tongue back in. You’re like a puppy with a slipper.”

In the end, he winds up accompanying Gwaine to the Adler Arena Skating Center, to see the Chilean speed-skaters. And what with the way that Gwaine keeps nudging him every time they appear on the ice, clad in thin lycra that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination, he can’t stop laughing all the way through the competition.

“Fuck, look at that,” says Gwaine. Shameless as always, he’s brought binoculars, and has them trained on a particularly gorgeous skater’s arse as he bends to fix his skate fastenings. “I can see the dimple above his arse when he clenches. Fuck.”

Arthur nearly spits out his drink. “Gwaine!” says Arthur, looking around to check that no-one has heard. “You’re incorrigible!”

“He can encourage me whenever he wants. See what I did there?”

But then the guy’s helmet goes on, and the race is on.

Gwaine's shouts are almost lost in the cacophony of fans screaming. At the end of the race he punches the air, because his favourite has won. Miraculously, the guy looks up, takes off his helmet, sweeps sweaty, lustrous, dark hair out of his smouldering eyes, grins, and waves. He looks like a male model.

Gwaine throws him a kiss--and Arthur is amazed when it’s returned with a wide and triumphant smile.

“Bloody hell,” says Arthur, admiringly. “You really can pull anyone, anywhere, can’t you?”

“Yup,” says Gwaine, popping a piece of chewing gum into his mouth.

 

 

ooO8O8Ooo

Gwaine’s “UpYoursPutin” YouTube channel has had over 800,000 hits. That video he took, weeks ago, of Arthur and Merlin kissing on the ice, is the most popular one, but he’s always on the lookout for other opportunities.

It’d be so brilliant if Putin ever looked at it. He’d probably have apoplexy.

Gwaine walks out of the rink, chuckling at the thought, and he’s not really looking where he’s going while he scrolls through the comments, which is how he winds up colliding with a high-speed object that comes hurtling out of nowhere towards him, propelling him into an undignified heap onto the cold, damp pavement.

“¡Lo siento mucho, guapo! ¿Estás bien?” says a warm, concerned-sounding voice.

He's somehow managed to land in a puddle, and water is seeping through Gwaine’s jeans as he stares up, blinking and open-mouthed at a vision of sultriness, the Chilean speed-skater he was ogling earlier.

“Ermmm - si?” says Gwaine, biting his lip.

Fuck. The guy is a god. He’d looked like some kind of an angel on the ice, with those amazing arse cheeks and those thighs, but bloody hell if he’s not even more fucking gorgeous in everyday cold-weather gear. For once Gwaine’s at a complete loss for words. Dumbly he reaches up with an arm, and the chiseled Chilean grasps it firmly and, hauling Gwaine easily to his feet, starts to dust him off.

Gwaine can’t help it. This guy, fuck, he’s frigging lush, and clearly has no sense of personal space, because those firm Chilean hands are all over Gwaine’s damp arse one minute, and brushing cheekily over his crotch the next. So he’s standing there, bullet-hard, gaping like a fish. God, the guy must be able to feel Gwaine’s arousal as he carefully brushes the last speck of dirt off the fly of Gwaine’s jeans.

“Ermmm,” says Gwaine, articulately.

The guy smiles at him, and that’s it, it’s like bloody fireworks going off.

“You speak English, yes?” says buff Chilean guy, his tones beautifully modulated.

Gwaine thinks he’s going to collapse on the spot.

“Yes,” he croaks. He clears his throught. “I am. I mean, I do. I mean, I’m English. Well. Irish. Actually. But I live in England. God.” He rakes his fingers through his hair, and looks the other guy up and down. “Gwaine,” he says, reaching out a hand to shake. Smooth, Gwaine, smooth.

“Gwaine,” says the other guy, head on one side, speaking slowly as if his mouth is feeling its way round the unfamiliar word, and fuck, Gwaine would like that mouth to feel its way around him. The guy smiles again, as he shakes Gwaine’s hand, that wide, delighted smile that makes Gwaine’s insides want to jump out and do a polka. “I like it. Your name. I am Lance.” A sly expression creeps across Lance’s face and his smile grows a little more intimate, almost conspiratorial. “Actually I know who you are, Gwaine,” he says. “I follow the GB hockey team.”

Gwaine laughs. “You do?” This is unbelieveable. Team GB, the no-hopers of the winter Olympics, have a follower? “Wow! What a coincidence, because I was following you actually!”  

He can’t believe he blurted that out. Lance still has a loose hold of his hand, and his fingers are tracing circles over it as he looks at Gwaine coquettishly through his lashes.  The sensation raises goose-bumps all over Gwaine’s body, and something else is getting raised as well.

Then Lance leans forward and whispers in his ear, so close that his breath tickles, and it makes Gwaine’s skin prickle, and his legs shake, and his shoulders draw together in delicious anticipation.

“I meet my friend, Merlin, the figure skater, you know him, yes? I meet him yesterday.”

Merlin? Merlin knows this guy? “Really?”

Lance nods. “He tell me interesting things about you.” Gwaine feels, rather than sees, hot eyes raking his body.

“He say you are single. You like skaters.”

When Lance steps away, and indicates his own perfectly formed corpus, Gwaine is literally panting with arousal.

“In case is not obvious, I am skater,” says Lance, with a smile. He steps in and does that maddening whispering thing again.

“He say you like to be sucked. He say you like to be fucked.” Lance shrugs, then smiles. ”We have lot in common. I like fucking, too!”

If Gwaine hadn’t been hard before, hearing these filthy words drip off this god-like tongue has him sporting an erection that you could use as a fucking antenna. Clearing his throat, Gwaine thinks he’s going to pass out, he’s trembling so much.

“Listen,” says Lance, staring deeply into Gwaine’s eyes, and God, he’s got a slight trace of accent, his English is incredible really, but the accent is just enough to make Gwaine’s spine tingle. “I know it’s a bit...how you say? fast? But… I like you.” Lance nods. “I like you a lot, Gwaine. So…. what say you, shall we continue this conversation somewhere a little bit more… private?”

“Yeah,” says Gwaine, hoarsely, blinking away visions of Lance’s lycra-clad bum. “Yeah. I’d like that. A lot. And fucking. I’d like that too. Please?” He nods. “So, erm…” he licks his lips and tears his eyes away from Lance’s mouth. And shit, that’s it, he’s going to kill Merlin, because there’s no way that Gwaine ever whimpers or begs. No way. And yet, here he is, plaintively saying “yes please?”

Yep, he’s going to kill Merlin. But not yet. There’s something else he has to do first.

He’s going to do his bit for Anglo-Irish-Chilean relations.

It’s a civic duty, really.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from Daft Punk’s “Get Lucky” - check out this marvellously camp version sung by the Russian Police Male Voice Choir here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P08B_lBUL0E (and which they also sang at the Sochi Olympics opening ceremony).


End file.
